


The First Halloween

by wouldyouliketoseemymask



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood, Gen, Halloween, scarecrow: year one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:59:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wouldyouliketoseemymask/pseuds/wouldyouliketoseemymask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even as a child, Jonathan Crane held a certain fascination and appreciation for Halloween. Nolanverse Crane, inspired by "Scarecrow: Year One". One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Halloween

Ever since he was a small boy, Jonathan Crane had held a deep fascination for All Hallows' Eve and its related festivities. Granny Keeny forbade celebration of the holiday, citing her religious beliefs as justification for the condemnation, although Crane suspected that the true reason was her overall disapproval of any act that resulted in joy; she had been a harsh, miserable crone of a woman, as cold as she was cruel, and he found it difficult to imagine her ever experiencing any form of happiness throughout her many years. Even the utterance of the word “Halloween” was met with an icy glare of warning, but this did little to quell Crane's curiosity—if anything, the delicious thought of defying Granny Keeny and her puritanical views only furthered his interest.

 

At night he would lie awake for hours, awaiting the sound of her footsteps heading towards her own bedroom with bated breath; when he was confident that she was finally asleep, he carefully lifted the loose floorboard underneath his bed and retrieved his most prized possessions: a flashlight (purchased at the local dime store with loose change he had gradually stolen from Granny Keeny's purse over the course of several months) and a worn, dog-eared book of collected horror stories. The only book Granny Keeny allowed him to read was The Bible, but he managed to make regular trips to Keeny Manor's library during her frequent naps—she was unaware that he had discovered the the contents of the forbidden room, and he took great care to ensure that he remain undetected. The story collection was by far his favorite volume in the library, and was the only book that he did not return to its shelf after finishing, instead storing it in his room to read over and over again. His mind swam with macabre images as he devoured page after page of haunted houses, spirits, and witchcraft; a skeptic even at his young age, he recognized the stories as fantastical, yet he found them delightful all the same. He would daydream about the ghoulish characters as he toiled in the fields, the sun beating down upon his back and his clothing clinging to his skin with sweat while Granny Keeny watched from the shaded comfort of her chair and umbrella, a cold glass of ice tea in her gnarled hand.

 

Crane was particularly enchanted with the act of trick or treating; he had never been permitted to have candy, and the idea of possessing an entire bag made his mouth water—he had no way actually _knowing_ what the sugary confections tasted like, but he imagined it was much more enjoyable than the tough stew meat and limp vegetables that he often ate for supper. He had long ago given up on begging Granny Keeny for permission to trick or treat with the rest of their small town's children—the last time he had asked her, he had been rewarded with a stinging slap across his cheek. “Punishment for a defiant attitude,” had been her reasoning, spoken coolly as a red hand print blossomed across Crane's cheek and his eyes welled up with tears. She was a firm believer in the “spare the rod, spoil the child” ideology, and insisted that her methods were meant to teach him how to be a good, devout man, and how to better serve the Lord.

 

In Crane's opinion, that was simply an excuse to hurt him.

 

Over time, he became more and more privately rebellious—the discovery of the library had given him confidence for the first time in his life, and he felt almost boisterous in his newfound determination to defy Granny Keeny. He began to merely mouth the words during prayers, his knees bent and hands clasped firmly together while he laughed inwardly at his deception. When working in the fields, he scrawled scientific equations learned from volumes he had read in the library into the dirt (if there was one thing Granny Keeny loathed more than enjoyment, it was the evils of science), erasing them with his foot when his chores were complete. As he sat across the table from his great-grandmother during their shared meals, he thought of all the wonderful, forbidden things he was learning in secrecy, and he would have to shovel spoonfuls of stew into his mouth to keep from grinning.

 

These small victories led to him gaining a certain degree of courage, and the year that he turned twelve he decided that he was tired of merely wondering what it would be like to trick or treat. By the time that October arrived, he had resolved himself to actually participating in the month's festivities, and with each passing day he became more and more excited, his mind consumed with fantasies of the night's events. He was careful not to betray his inner thoughts to Granny Keeny—she would have undoubtedly locked him in the atrium overnight had she possessed even the slightest idea of what he was planning—and continued to go about his daily routine .

 

On Halloween night he sat in his bedroom, his stomach lurching with nervousness and frenzied elation, and waited for Granny Keeny to retire to her room. He debated whether or not to go through with his plan, imagining various scenarios in which the old crone learned of his intentions and subjected him to a punishment that made the crows in the atrium look inviting by comparison. Perhaps it was better to stay at home—after all, would such a silly act as trick or treating really be worth the resulting punishment?

 

He thought of the years he had spent overhearing his classmates discuss their Halloween costumes and the candy they would doubtlessly receive, and of the overwhelming envy he had felt. He thought of the story book, and the images he conjured while flipping through its yellowing pages. He thought of all that he had missed out on his childhood, of the experiences he would never have, and of the lonely, crushing bitterness that tore at his heart and left him hollow.

 

Crane wanted so badly to be normal, to be like the other children. And for one night, he _could_ be. He could walk among them, smile like them, laugh like them, have _fun_ like them. For one night, he could be _normal_.

 

He decided that any punishment his great-grandmother could possibly conjure would be worth that experience.

 

When he was sure that Granny Keeny was asleep, he removed his pillow from its case and tucked the pouch into his pants, took a deep, calming breath of finality, and climbed out of his window. Keeny Manor was decayed beyond repair, and he half-expected the piping to give way beneath him while he slowly climbed down; he had often wished that he were a bulkier, stronger boy, particularly after enduring a beating at the hands of schoolyard bullies, but as he scaled the rotting house he was grateful for his light and spindly frame. He did not look down while he descended, knowing that even the quickest glimpse would be enough for him to lose his nerve—or even worse, cause him to fall and alert Granny Keeny to his actions. She would have little sympathy for him should the fall result in a broken limb; if anything, she would deprive him of medical attention and force him to continue his field duties as punishment. The thought of harvesting crops with a mangled arm or leg turned his stomach, and he gripped the piping so tightly that his knuckles blanched.

 

After what felt like an eternity, he finally reached the bottom of the pipe. As he lowered himself onto the ground, beyond thankful for the hard soil beneath his feet, he could scarcely believe what he had just accomplished. He had done it—he had escaped. He had _won_.

 

He began to run, eager to put as much distance possible between him and Granny Keeny. In his excitement he had neglected to bring his jacket, and the relentless night chill sent shivers through his body and pricked at his skin; he knew that he was likely to catch a cold as a result of his foolish lack of foresight, but he did not care. In that moment, the only thing that mattered to him was his current freedom. As he ran along the dirt road that led to town, his path illuminated by the white glow of the moon, he had never before felt so alive, so _free_ —it was as if he had spent the entirety of his twelve years in the midst of restless slumber, awaking on this very night to view the world in all of its splendor and moonlit glory. His existence had been dismal and grim, but tonight was a new beginning for him, a rebirth. Tonight, there was hope.

 

For the first time in his life, he cried tears of happiness.

 

When his breathing became labored, panting gasps and he could no longer ignore the gnawing stitch in his side, he stopped to rest in front of a corn field. He sat on the dying brown grass, cramped and bordering on exhaustion; despite the cold, his cheeks bore a rosy pink flush and his unkempt hair clung to his forehead with sweat. Still, his physical weariness paled in comparison to his excitement over the night's upcoming activities. He couldn't wait for his pillowcase to be filled to its brim with an assortment of candy and treats, to go door to door and be faced with welcoming, friendly smiles instead of the scornful frowns and sneers of disdain that he was accustomed to, to gaze in awe at the parade of costumes—

 

_Costumes._ Crane smacked a frustrated hand against his forehead, both angry with and disheartened by his glaring oversight. He had been so enraptured with his fantasies of rebellion that he had completely forgotten to create a costume—not that remembering would have benefited him in any way. He could not afford to purchase so much as a mask from the small selection offered at the town's only department store, and his own menial wardrobe consisted of shabby, dull clothing that not even the most vivid imagination would be able to construct into playful garb. Even if Granny Keeny had been struck by an uncharacteristically charitable mood and abandoned all of her preconceived notions regarding Halloween, her arthritis rendered her unable to so much as thread a needle, much less sew a costume, and Crane's sewing skills were limited to stitching patches onto his tattered clothes.

 

He supposed that he could participate without a costume—but even if the adults took pity on him and still provided him with candy, there was no way that the other children would be as sympathetic. There would be giggles and finger-pointing, along hushed whispers of gossip; if he was especially unfortunate (and he almost always was), one of his usual tormentors would spot him and do their absolute best to ruin his night. No, if he didn't have a costume, then there was no point in going any further.

 

He let out a weary sigh of defeat and stood up, dusting the dirt from the seat of his pants. If he turned around now, he might be able to make it back home before Granny Keeny realized that he was missing.

 

From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of burlap and straw peeking above the wispy rows of corn. A sudden idea dawned on him, and he began to smile.

 

(break)

 

Within minutes of arriving into town, Crane spotted a group of several other costumed children gathered at the local park, laughing and chatting amongst themselves with apparent enthusiasm. He recognized two of his classmates, neither of whom he was pleased to see—the always arrogant Bo Griggs, dressed as a pirate with a sword crafted from cardboard strapped to his side and a large eye-patch fastened across his face, and his ever-present girlfriend Sherry Squires, her hair piled atop her head in a pile of pinned curls and adorned with a tiara, the long skirt of her frothy pink dress hovering mere inches above the muddy ground. The pair often entertained themselves at Crane's expense, whether it be from a series of unrelenting punches delivered with Bo's fists or a cruel taunt spilling from Sherry's venomous lips. Not wishing to be humiliated before an audience of their friends, Crane crouched behind a large oak tree and waited for the group to depart; years of contorting his body to accommodate the nooks and crevices of Keeny Manor had resulted in him developing an exceptional skill for hiding, a proficiency which served him well when fleeing from bullies and shielding himself during his bouts of punishment in the manor's atrium.

 

He watched with rapidly-dwindling patience as the boys in the group passed a bottle of what Crane suspected to be beer among themselves, taking deep swigs and letting out rude belches before handing it to another. He imagined that they felt very impressed with themselves indeed, as if enjoying a forbidden beverage in front of giggling, dolled-up girls and away from the watchful eyes of adults was somehow proof of their ripening masculinity and self-assured superiority over the inferior likes of Crane and his ilk. He thought of how funny it would be if Bo were to become so inebriated that he tripped over the hem of Sherry's dress and soiled the pretty pink fabric, both infuriating her and embarrassing himself. The idea brought him a great deal of amusement, and he had to cup a hand over his mouth to contain the laughter bubbling inside of him.

 

After what felt like an eternity, the group finally grew bored of the park and began their journey towards the town's few neighborhoods. As Crane rose from the ground and straightened his cramped legs, it occurred to him that he was not entirely sure _how_ to trick or treat; true, he had read about the act in his prized storybook, but the social graces involved were still a mystery to him. He would have to follow the other boys and girls and observe their movements—from a distance, of course. The last thing he wanted was for his night to be spoiled by a bunch of intoxicated fools and their encouraging girlfriends.

 

He pursued them with all the stealth he could muster, huddling behind trash cans and vehicles as he studied the group's actions. He watched as they knocked on doors, gleefully chanting “trick of treat” when the home's smiling occupant answered, wide grins on their faces as bowls of candy were tipped into their plastic Jack O'Lantern buckets. Crane suddenly found himself quite conscious of the faded pillowcase in his hands, and he gripped the fabric tightly to combat the pang of jealousy in his stomach.

 

When he was confident that he had learned the entire procedure, he waited for the group to move onto the next street before abandoning his hiding spot and walking to a nearby house. He stood on a weathered, dirty welcome mat with the words “GOD BLESS THIS HOME” emblazoned across in bleached lettering, his heart pounding in chest with excitement and anxiety so loudly that he was sure it would alert the home's owner to his presence before he even had the chance to knock.

 

This was it. This was the moment that he had risked receiving Granny Keeny's barbaric discipline for, the moment that he had dreamed of over and over again in the confines of his shabby bedroom. Everything he had done that night had been for that very moment, and now that it was here he was unsure of how he felt.

 

Nervous? Thrilled?

 

Scared?

 

_Don't be stupid_ , he scolded himself inwardly, ashamed of his timidity. _You've survived years of Granny Keeny's abusive temper, endured beatings at the hands of bullies, and faced an entire chapel full of frenetic crows on multiple occasions. And you're scared to knock on a door? The old bat was right—you really_ are _a waste._

 

He narrowed his eyes.

 

_No. I'm_ not _._

 

He wiped the dark look from his face, set his jaw in determination, and rapped his knuckles against the door.

 

He had barely lowered his hand to his side when the door swung open to reveal a middle-aged woman, tall and slender, with a black witch's hat perched atop her blonde hair and a large bowl of candy in her arms. She surveyed him with mild surprise and confusion, as if taken aback by his appearance, before regaining her composure and giving him a small, awkward smile.

 

“That's certainly an... _interesting_ costume,” she said kindly, doing her best to mask her bewilderment, and Crane beamed with pride underneath his mask.

 

It had been a difficult task to retrieve the scarecrow's head from its post; the stand was much taller than himself, and he had received several splinters in the process. But the results had been worth the struggle, and when he lowered the burlap onto his face and fastened it around his neck with rope he felt overwhelmingly content. The burlap smelled of mildew and caused his skin to itch, but now he had a costume—and best of all, he didn't have to pay a cent for it. His shabby, patch-ridden clothing actually worked in his favor for once, and he stuck a few pieces of hay into his shirt collar and sleeves to add to the effect. Even Granny Keeny would have had to admit that his outfit was impressive, given what little time and material he had to work with—Crane was nothing if not resourceful.

 

Besides, he quite liked his costume. For a reason he couldn't quite put a finger on, he felt _right_ in it, as if it had been tailored for him and trussed onto the scarecrow to patiently await his arrival in the cornfield. He wished that he could keep it, and stow it away under the floorboard along with the rest of his hidden treasures.

 

“Thank you,” Crane replied politely, his voice slightly muffled by the burlap. Granny Keeny had impressed upon him at an early age the importance of courtesy, and while he seldom believed in any of her dubious wisdom, he was smart enough to realize that it was much, _much_ easier to get what you wanted if you had good manners. By far the most valuable lesson he had learned so far in his twelve years of life was the power of words; you didn't have to actually _mean_ a single thing that you were saying to someone—you just had to say what they wanted to hear.

 

The woman smiled again, this time more warmly. “Would you like some candy?” she asked, and Crane's heart leapt.

 

“Yes, please! Oh, I mean, um, trick or treat!” He thrust his arms forward, his hands fumbling as he quickly opened his pillowcase. He watched with hungry, greedy eyes as the woman scooped a handful of candy into the linen pouch, silently willing his stomach not to growl. He had eaten supper before his departure from Keeny Manor (an unappetizing meal of lukewarm vegetable soup and rather dry cornbread), but the sight of the brightly colored wrappers in the bowl made him feel suddenly ravenous.

 

“Thank you!” Crane exclaimed, his mouth watering with anticipation.

 

“You're welcome,” the woman replied. “Have a good night.” She gave him a final smile of parting and closed the door.

 

The second that she was out of sight, Crane reached into the pillowcase, hastily grabbed a piece of chocolate, tore off the wrapper, lifted his mask, and popped the candy into his mouth.

 

The taste was beyond what he had imagined even in his most vibrant of fantasies; he had not envisioned the satisfying crunch as he broke the nougat between his teeth, or the smooth, sugary flavor that swam over his taste buds while he chewed, or the rich sweetness that lingered on his tongue even after he had completely devoured the treat. Eager to repeat the experience, he seized another morsel, fingers fast as lightning as they tore at the decorative cellophane. He followed the candy with another, and then another, and before he knew it all that remained in his pillowcase was a small pile of discarded wrappers.

 

Crane frowned as the sight of the empty plastic wrappings, then turned on his heel and began his brisk walk towards the next house. He'd had his first taste of indulgence, and he _liked_ it. He wondered what Granny Keeny would think if she could see him, his belly full of candy and on his way to get more. She'd probably call him a glutton, a swine, a sinner.

 

Well, if _that_ was gluttony, then he could certainly understand the appeal.

 

The second householder was every bit as generous as the first, and so was the third; by the time he had made the neighborhood rounds, his pillowcase was heavy with treats and he was grinning from ear to ear beneath his mask. Not wishing to push his luck, he decided to begin his journey home; he would stop at the cornfield first to return the mask, then find a suitable hiding spot for his candy—he wouldn't dare risk bringing so much as an empty wrapper into Keeny Manor—before slipping back into his bedroom. Perhaps he could hide his loot in shrubbery near the manor's grounds, and hope that it would not fall prey to ants or other scavengers. Or maybe the tool shed would be a safer choice; after all, he was the one who tended to most of the outdoor maintenance, and with Granny Keeny becoming more frail with each passing day she was unlikely to—

 

“ _AHHHH!_ ”

 

A high-pitched, frightened scream interrupted Crane's thoughts, and he jumped, startled by the sudden noise. His wide eyes darted frantically across his surroundings, trying to decipher the source of the scream; he had no intention of rendering aid to whoever the terrified party was, but he was highly curious as to what they had found so frightening. The only cries of horror he ever heard were his own, and the idea of observing someone else in the midst of terror intrigued him. For a wild moment, he wondered if the unseen individual had come across one of the ghoulish creatures from his storybook—it was a fantastical notion and one that he would not usually entertain, but tonight _was_ Halloween...

 

“Monster! _Monster_!”

 

Crane turned to see a small child—surely no older than three and clad in a white lamb costume—pointing an accusatory finger towards him, his tiny face streaked with tears.

 

“What are you talking about?” Crane asked curtly. He was sorely disappointed that he had been denied a macabre sight, and the irksome confrontation was cutting into precious time that could be spent feasting upon his sweets.

 

“Monster!” The youngster pointed a chubby digit at Crane's head, his eyes wide with the special sort of intense terror that can only be experienced during one's childhood, when the world is still new and everything has the potential to be frightening. He tightly gripped the handle of his plastic Jack O'Lantern bucket, as if the garishly orange pail brought him a sense of security, and wrinkled his black-painted nose in disgust.

 

“Shouldn't you be with your parents?” Crane's tolerance for the annoying inconvenience was thinning, and he could feel himself becoming more and more irritated. He didn't even understand why—

 

The mask. Of _course_. The revelation was so obvious that he felt embarrassed by his previous confusion; the child was scared of his _mask_. Crane supposed that he could see why the boy was frightened; he had probably only seen scarecrows in the middle of fields, harmlessly intimate and comprised of discarded fabric and straw, and the sight of one moving about as if it were a living, breathing thing had likely disturbed him.

 

This predicament was easily remedied; he need only lift his mask and expose his face, revealing himself to be a flesh and blood normality rather than a monstrous fiend.

 

But where was the fun in that?

 

Crane grinned mischievously beneath the burlap. After all, it _was_ Halloween night, and it would be a great injustice if he didn't celebrate to the event to its fullest. And what better way to commemorate his first All Hallow's Eve than to deliver a good old-fashioned scare?

 

Crane stepped towards the boy, raised his arms above his head in what he hoped was a menacing gesture, and let out a raucous, ear-splitting roar. The cry was more shrill than he had anticipated—his voice was as slight as his body, an unfortunate trait that was often the brunt of Bo's mocking imitations—and for a fleeting second he feared that he had succeeded only in making himself look like a fool.

 

His doubts were assuaged when the boy shrieked in terror, dropping his pail as he instinctively jumped backwards. Its confectionery contents spilled onto the ground, their shiny packaging shimmering beneath the moonlight as they landed in a scattered pile before Crane's feet. The boy continued to back away from Crane, his eyes wide and brimming with frightened tears, before turning on his heel and running away as fast as his little legs could carry him. Crane laughed at the sight of the fluffy tail of the boy's costume bobbing behind him as he ran, beyond pleased with the reaction to his impish joke; he wondered what frenzied thoughts had raced through the child's mind when Crane had startled him, and the idea sent a fresh bout of boisterous laughter pouring from his lips.

 

Was this how Sherry and Bo felt every time they bullied him? Satisfied? Proud?

 

Powerful?

 

It occurred to him that the boy might return with his parents, who would likely be outraged and none too pleased with Crane's antics, and he thought it best to take his leave. He scooped handfuls of the boy's abandoned candy into his own, justifying the thievery by rationalizing that it would otherwise go to waste should the boy not come back to claim it. Granny Keeny often expounded on the evils of wastefulness during meal times, when Crane struggled to choke down one of her deplorably-cooked dishes, although he suspected that her views would be different regarding bountiful amounts of sweets.

 

As he walked along the dirt path leading to Keeny Manor, his pillowcase of treats swung over his shoulder, he wondered rather or not his great-grandmother had discovered that he was missing. There was a real possibility that his every step was bringing him closer and closer to severe punishment, perhaps worse than anything he had experienced before. Still, he had won. He had taken her beliefs and her archaic rules and crushed them beneath his foot, and he had relished every spiteful, defiant moment.

 

Let Granny Keeny send him to the crows—this night had been victorious and grand, and no amount of her cruel discipline could rob him of that. He had gorged on forbidden candy—with even more to enjoy later—and he had finally lived out his years-long fantasy of celebrating Halloween. If the price he had to pay for his adventure was a night in the atrium, then so be it.

 

Crane began to whistle as he walked, his spirits high and his belly full.

 

Happy Halloween, indeed.

 


End file.
